


Packed Full of Pups

by FestivalGrey



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Bestiality, Breeding, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Human/Pokemon Relationship(s), Human/Pokemon Sex, Impregnation, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Knotting, Multi, Oral Knotting, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pokephilia, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Sex with Sentient Animals, and loving it, getting impregnated with pokemon pups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestivalGrey/pseuds/FestivalGrey
Summary: Deep in the Slumbering Weald, the wolves of yore wait for a human to rekindle their trust... and to take their knots and bear their pups......might it be you?
Relationships: Zacian/Original Pokemon Trainer, Zacian/Reader, Zamazenta/Original Pokemon Trainer, Zamazenta/Reader
Kudos: 230





	Packed Full of Pups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faleep/gifts).



> This was a December reward for Faleep, a friend and longtime reader!
> 
> Check out [my Twitter](https://twitter.com/FestivalGrey) if you want more updates on forthcoming fics and general horny ramblings! I hope you enjoy the story 💕

You wake, blissfully warm, curled against the two legendary wolves Zacian and Zamazenta. Fighting a yawn, you gasp, feeling your young squirming in your belly—the pups you bear for Galar’s legends. A happy blush kindled in your cheeks, you rest a hand pleasantly atop your taut tummy, feeling the pups tumble within; a gift from the legends to you.

When it had all started, you never would have pictured this for yourself—packed with pups, lover to legends. And yet here you are…

It all started innocently enough. A researcher with a modest grant to study the Slumbering Weald. Your “expedition” was little more than yourself and an intern setting up shop in the quiet town of Postwick, a few locals paid to assist you.

The Weald has a reputation—that of a forest, noble in its quiet and solitude, with very little to offer passers-by… and of a haunted place, echoed with curtains of eerie fog and the howls of distant wolves.

It is the seeming incompatibility of these two masks, the fact that the Weald is both forgettable and fearsome, that spurs you to investigate its depths.

When you first step under the shadowed boughs, the fog rushes in like water in a streambed—holding close, impeding every step of the way. You’ve heard of places where every step seems to lead you deeper into the unknown, have even set foot in the infamously labyrinthine Glimwood Tangle, where fairies are said to prey and play with those who wander… but this is different. It feels deliberate, as if something doesn’t want you there. You swear you see eyes gleaming at you in the dark, and when you find yourself walking back into Postwick despite your best attempts otherwise, you shiver, though there is no cold.

Zacian and Zamazenta… the others in Hammerlocke University mocked you for your focus on these legends, but after so many other myths have proven to be real (did your cohorts forget the rise of the titans in Hoenn? The way that Ho-oh roosts above a tower in Ecruteak?) you cannot want but to prove it true. They have to be real, you think. They have to be!

The legends are fragmented and incomplete, sometimes contradictory—were the two wolves human knights cursed to a new form for defying a corrupt king? Stalwart allies who defended the weak? Siblings? Rivals? The common thread is that they were once intimately connected with humans of the Galar region—but no longer.

Why did they leave, you wonder? And could they be made to trust humans again?

After your initial failure, you return to the Weald. You get further than last time, though the sense of being watched is even stronger than before, and you see shadows in the far reaches of the wood. At one point, the shadow coalesces into a pair of shapes; your breath catches, remembering storybook legends.

“It can’t be,” you whisper. “Zac—”

The foremost shadow howls balefully and your mind spins, and when your head clears, you are back in Postwick once more.

Perhaps others would have given up or been frightened away. And this is as close to a confirmation as you can get—the legends _are_ real. There is _something_ in the wood, and you could easily turn even this experience into a career-builder.

But you don’t care about your career, not really. Ever since seeing a painting of the wolves in a book of childhood tales, you have obsessed over them—both of them. They’re _real,_ and clearly not malevolent, for they could have attacked you outright instead of just turning you away.

You have to do this.

Preparing yourself, you return to the Weald a third time.

The fog swirls about you, the howls are insistent and forceful, but still you do not turn back, devoting all your willpower and intellect towards not being turned away—and then the fog clears, exposing a quiet altar in the middle of a secluded pond, the two wolves looking at you warily.

They are noble and grand in the way of a tree that’s been growing for millennia. One’s coat is magenta, its mane scruffy and pulled into an approximation of a topknot; the other is cyan, with long braids. Both are scarred, missing parts of their ears.

Both of them, too, are canine in more than just their snouts and paws and tails. From where you are standing, you can see the sheaths between their legs, and though you have never looked at pokemon that way before, you find yourself strangely enticed by the sight.

For a moment your words fail you—but then you approach them cautiously, hands raised. “Please,” you say, “I know you are keeping away from humans, but I… I’ve always idolized you… they say you’re Galar’s heroes.” The words spill from you like water: your adoration towards them, your desire to come close to them, to prove that humans can be trusted, and through it all, the wolves watch with those ancient, noble eyes. Is it just you, or is their wariness starting to fade?

Finally Zamazenta turns away, but Zacian approaches slowly. Your breath catches as she brushes her snout against your side—and at her touch (for she _is_ a she _;_ the sudden conveying of information between you two indicates that beyond any doubtfulness, no matter what lies between her legs) you instantly see visions of the past, of the two being celebrated and feted after driving back hordes of Dynamax pokemon, of the celebrations fading, turning sour, of the wolves being driven out by the ungrateful descendants of those they saved. Stepping back and fixing you with a gaze, Zacian departs after her brother.

The following day you are back again, and your heart glows with pride at the fact that this time, there is no fog to obscure your way. When you return to the altar, they are waiting there for you.

The two wolves vigorously repulse your attempts to measure or test them with devices, but you adapt well enough. They give you more visions—how the celebrations involved _mating_ between the wolves and their supplicants, the people spreading their legs and taking in thick wolf cock, the siblings howling with delight and triumph as they flushed their eager mates with pearlescent seed.

You feel arousal burning your cheeks as the visions fade and the wolves fix you with gazes that tell you that they _definitely_ sense what you’re thinking. You swallow dryly and, part of you not even believing what you’re saying, offer to play that role yourself.

The twin wolves exchange a look and then wander away into the forest, as if to converse. And as you trace your steps back to Postwick, still scarcely believing what you just offered, part of you wonders—why did you offer that? For research? To further your investigation? No… you can lie to others, but not yourself.

The truth was that the moment you saw them looking at you with intelligent eyes, saw their sheathed cocks, you knew you needed to taste their flesh against yours, to feel them within you.

The next day you approach, feeling shaky with anticipation, and they are there again. But Zacian looks uncertain, and she approaches to give you another part to yesterday’s vision—and you are shown that those who laid with the wolves inevitably began to _swell,_ their bellies rounding out in unmistakable pregnancy, and soon they were bearing all sorts of canine pokemon to the world: Houndour, Poochyena, Growlithe, Rockruff, Yamper, Lillipup, a veritable _bounty_ of pups, one after the other. When the vision ends, you find yourself shaky. You hadn’t… considered that side. To not only lie with the legends, but to be _bred_ by them.

They observe you dispassionately, clearly waiting for you to leave now that you know another piece to their puzzle. They are waiting for humans to disappoint them again. But though you hadn’t expected it, the thought of bearing the children of legends, of them fucking their pups into you, of you being honored in such a way, seems endlessly enticing. If you know it’s coming, who wouldn’t want to bear the children of legends—pokemon or not?

Wordlessly, you strip your clothes away and present yourself, the air cool and inviting against your soft trimmed mound. You hear a small barking grunt, surprise perhaps, from the wolves, and then one of them trots over. Cream-furred paws drape over your shoulder as Zacian mounts you, her member pressing against your mound and making you whine, and though she doesn’t share another vision with you, you sense a wordless conveyance of appreciation and respect.

Slowly, deliciously, she slides into you, making your hands tremble against the mossy stones of the altar, your voice sobbing as you cry over the Weald. “Yes,” you say, voice strung with bliss, “yes, yes, _please,_ I’ve wanted… I…”

She picks up her pace, her cock quickly strumming back and forth in an energetic tempo, and your words trail off as your voice fails you. The whole totality of it—of her paws on your shoulders, so powerful and yet so gentle; the whispering brush of her fur against your back, silken and safe; her low voice thrumming with delight as she takes you, the vibrations coursing through you; and the feeling, the sheer, inescapable, impossibly full _feeling_ of the ancient wolf’s cock inside your sex is so incredible, it’s almost too much to bear. You sob with happiness, with sexual pleasure, with incredulity—it’s _happening,_ you found them and befriended them and now they’re connecting to you in a way that is more intimate than you could have ever imagined.

Perhaps this will convince them that humans can be trusted again, but even if it doesn’t, at least yougot to appreciate their nobility firsthand.

After a few minutes of Zacian fucking you—some of the best of your life—Zamazenta trots up to your front, ready and erect. Your back is occupied, but you have more than one hole. You open your mouth invitingly and he rears up, his tip touching your lips, and then he slides in.

Your lips flutter around his hugeness, his sheer massiveness stuffing you so wide your jaw almost aches; he presses the back of your mouth and you work your throat to allow him entry, your voice moaning incoherently as he slips in deep. You work your throat around his cock and clench your cunt around Zacian and each wolf shudders with bliss and you feel like a champion.

Then, they really start going at you.

Spitroasted by legends, tag-teamed by wolves, this is a wild, incredible thrill you never imagined for yourself. Your body quivers with stimulation, your eyes fluttering and your voice forcing out what gasps of wonder it can as Zacian pounds into you again and again, her thick rod teasing long notes of ecstasy from your delighted walls and making you dance around her. And her counterpart in your mouth is just as good, the musk of it all overwhelming you, the girth of it immovable and dominant, and as Zamazenta bucks into you, his massiveness barreling into your raw, eager throat, you work around him, wringing a pleasured back from the fabled wolf.

This is everything you never knew you wanted. You have long considered yourself a researcher of history and folktales, but at the moment, it seems that your true destiny was as a breeder for mythic pokemon.

And breed you they do. Zamazenta is the first to break, his voice hitching into a staccato stutter, growls chasing after themselves. You feel his cock tense as he slams home, pressing deep into your throat, and then he jets straight into you. You gulp down his seed passionately, and your eyes flutter as his knot expands, spreading your jaw even more, tying you together.

Zacian cums a few moments after, and if you thought Zamazenta was incredible, the feeling of her knot spreading your pussy farther than you imagined was unbelievable; her cum jetting into you seals the deal, legendary seed seeping into your innermost recesses, claiming you for her pups.

More wordless sensations bask at you from both wolves: relief, satisfaction, pride, gratitude. And on your hands and knees between them, one wolf tied into your cunt and the other spreading your mouth, you murmur back appreciation.

The next day you spend sore and tender and delighted in your tiny room, but the day after _that_ you go back. This time they swap positions, Zacian fucking your face and Zamazenta plowing your pussy, not that you mind. And you conjure up reasons to continue your research, to stay in Postwick, until…

Until, as you’d expected, as you’d _hoped,_ your tummy starts to round.

Pups. The visions leave no doubt. You stroke your tummy in wonder, trying to imagine what they could be? Yamper, perhaps? A horde of little Growlithe?

You end up spending more and more time in the Weald, less in Postwick, until at some point you’ve more or less moved in with the wolves, the two legends doting on you as you round out, sometimes licking your belly tenderly. They fuck you tenderly too, soft and sweet, and you sometimes curl up and drift off while still knotted tight, feeling safer than you ever have in your life.

The day comes and it’s Rockruff. You squeeze them out, and in the hazy aftermath nearly tear up with joy as they nuzzle and cuddle up to you. These… these are yours, your children with legends, with gods, and the two of them look proudly on.

The pups grow fast, quickly becoming rambunctious and playful little troublemakers, and though you try to keep them in line with scolds, in the end the Rockruff are too cute to ever stay mad at. You find yourself glad they’re the little Rock-types; pugnacious and playful, they bark happily when they see you and frolic with each other. You can already picture them as noble Lycanroc.

You want more.

Submitting your paper for approval (a truncated report on what you’ve seen in the visions that can be backed up from artifacts and the historical record), you receive praise for your hard work and historical vision. Offers for conference presentations and think tank spots make their way to your new address in Postwick and are turned down.

After all, you’ve got a new thing to focus on. You’re happily, blissfully pregnant again.

And so you find yourself, warm and safe, cuddling up with your lupine lovers, the creatures whose stories have captivated you for as long as you could think; your new children squirming energetically in your belly as you stroke it, eying your roundness with wonder.

This is your role, you’re certain of it—the lover, the mate, the breeder, the confidant and friend to the ancient legends of your region. You’ve never been happier than you are now, secure with them, lush and warm and happy, packed full of pups.


End file.
